The trooper s eagerness to die was amusing. Clay jabbed him in the ribs with the barrel and motioned at the mouth of the gorge.
“You’re taking me somewhere? Is that it?” Calhoun asked. “Probably to your village, I’ll bet, so you and your friends can torture me to your heart’s delight. What if I refuse? What will you do?”
For an answer, Clay stalked around behind the soldier, gripped Calhoun by the hair, and yanked him erect. The trooper let out a yelp as Clay applied the sole of his right moccasin to Calhoun’s backside.
Calhoun stumbled forward. Catching himself, he twisted to give the warrior a piece of his mind. An iron hand gasped his shoulder and shoved, propelling him to go on whether he wanted to or not. Again he tried to turn, and that time, the rifle barrel poked him in the spine, flaring pain high and low.
“All right! All right!” Calhoun said. “I’ll do as you want! But first chance I get I’m taking that Winchester from you and making you eat your own lead!”
Clay was tempted to thank the trooper for the warning. Smiling, he guided Calhoun out of the gorge and up onto the north rim to where he had left the black stallion ground hitched. Mounting, he swung the horse to the northwest, then gestured for the soldier to walk ahead of him.
Calhoun complied. He was puzzled though. According to the reports he’d heard, the renegades had their lairs deep in the Dragoon and Chiricahua Mountains. Yet there that red devil was, taking him back out onto the open plain and heading in a northerly direction. Why?
As time went by, Calhoun’s strength flagged. He had been on the go since shortly after dawn and his body was not accustomed to being pushed so hard. More than anything, he craved rest. A few hours of sleep would tide him over, but he might as well have asked the Apache to let him ride double. He had to keep going whether he liked it or not.
Clay held the stallion to a slow walk in order not to tire the soldier out too soon. He listened to the night sounds to gauge whether they were alone in the vast chaparral.
To the south, a coyote yipped, and the cry was promptly answered by another. To the east, high up among the peaks, a wolf howled. The sound echoed and reechoed, giving the illusion of an entire pack voicing their cries all at once. After the howl faded on the wind, an owl hooted. Much closer, scales scuttled across the ground. A snake was abroad, but it did not come near them.
Calhoun mechanically lifted one foot after another. It taxed him to keep his eyes open, and presently, he started to talk about anything and everything that popped into his head just to stay awake.
“I don’t see what you Injuns are making such a stink about. I’ve heard that the government takes real good care of your people. You get all the food you can eat and clothes too. Your kids get to go to school just like every white kid does. Seems to me that you should be thankful for all the whites have done for you, not trying to plant us all six feet under.”
Clay wondered if every trooper believed the same. Didn’t they know that the government gave the Apaches a weekly ration of flour and beef that seldom lasted longer than three or four days? Or that the agents often skimped on the beef ration to line their own pockets with money by selling cows meant for the Indians to whites?
To make matters worse, the government would not let the warriors go off to hunt whenever their families were in need. A warrior had to get permission first, and nine times out of ten, such consent would be denied on one flimsy pretext or another.
Even gathering firewood was strictly monitored. The women were only allowed to gather a basketful of cottonwood and mesquite at a time. No one was allowed to stockpile any during the colder months; as a result, it was not uncommon for a family to be shivering in their fireless wickiup with the outside temperature down near zero.
Further aggravating the Apaches, many of their old ways were no longer allowed. Brewing tiswin, a potent beer made from corn, was an offense that could land them in the guardhouse. Even time-honored customs, such as cutting off the nose of a wife who slept with another man, were frowned on. And formal combat between warriors was out of the question.
Small wonder the Apaches hated the Whitemans’ policies. Smaller wonder that the tribes disobeyed them every chance they got.
The whites could only punish those they caught breaking the rules, and Apaches were masters at deceit. Tiswin was brewed where the fumes would not give it away and consumed only when the soldiers were nowhere around. Formal combat was held in remote spots, and the bodies of the losers were quickly taken and buried. Wives who were unfaithful were punished in a less obvious manner.
The trooper was speaking again. Clay listened with half an ear. “It’s too bad you can’t understand a word I’m saying, Injun. If you could, I’d make you see I’m not here because I hate your people or anything like that. I’m not one of those who thinks the only good Injun is a dead Injun just because your skin is a different color than mine. Believe it or not, I came west for the thrill of it all. I wanted to put a little excitement in my life.” Wagging his bound hands, he gave vent to a sharp laugh. “Looks as if I found it, wouldn’t you say?”
Clay didn’t bother to reveal that he understood every word Calhoun spoke. When he offered no response, the young trooper lapsed into somber silence and did not speak again for over an hour and a half.
Calhoun had been plodding along for what seemed like an eternity, fatigue eating at him like a saw into wood. He was so tired he could barely keep his eyes open. Coming over a low rise, he beheld a long, flat expanse ahead. Wearily, he let his eyelids droop and headed down the slope. His right foot snagged on an obstacle. Before he could right himself, he toppled, smacking onto his shoulder. Gravity took over and he rolled to the bottom.
Clay spurred forward but there was nothing he could do.
“Damn it all!” Calhoun said, spitting dirt as he wriggled up onto his knees. “I can’t go on! I’m worn out! Do you savvy me, Injun? I need sleep, or I’m liable to pass out right at your feet.”
They had a long way to go in a relatively short time, or Clay would have obliged the man. Prodding the trooper with the Winchester, he indicated Calhoun should march on.
Exasperated, the Fifth Cavalry recruit said, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you when the time comes.”
The night had grown steadily cooler. A brisk breeze from the northeast relieved the lingering heat of the day. It invigorated Calhoun until his fatigue mounted to the point where he dozed off and on while he hiked.
About three o’clock in the morning, Clay heard the private groan. The next moment Calhoun melted to the earth and lay there breathing heavily. Clay moved closer to give the solider a poke in the ribs. Calhoun never so much as twitched. Instead, he broke out in loud snoring.
Sighing, Clay Taggart climbed from the black stallion. He knew a lost cause when he saw one. The trooper had been pushed to the point of exhaustion. Forcing him to go on at that point would defeat Clay’s whole purpose.
Making a circuit of the immediate area, Clay located a wide patch of grass where the stallion could graze. He returned to the slumbering soldier and sank down facing Calhoun. The Winchester in his lap, he let his chin droop onto his chest and soon drifted off himself, sleeping lightly the whole night through. Twice he was awakened, once by the whinny of a horse far to the east, another time by the faint crack of a rifle to the south.
As dawn painted the eastern sky a vivid pink, White Apache roused himself, stretched, and thoughtfully considered his captive. Rising, he nudged Calhoun. When that failed to wake the trooper, Clay hunkered down, scooped up a handful of dirt, and held it over Calhoun’s open mouth.
The man still snored loud enough to be mistaken for a bear. Turning his wrist so the dirt could trickle out, Clay smiled when Calhoun sputtered a few times. The trooper shifted, muttering, and Clay lowered his hand closer. By craning his neck, he could see Calhoun’s tongue. Impishly, he dribbled grains onto it.
A racking fit caused Calhoun to snap up off the ground. Coughing and choking, red in the face, he
bent over to spit out the dirt.
“Damn you, you savage!” Calhoun said when he could speak. “What kind of way is that to wake someone up? Or did you intend to start your day by having me choke to death?”
Rising, Clay motioned for the soldier to do the same. At gunpoint, Clay steered him over to the black stallion. Mounting, Clay pointed due north.
Calhoun got the message. Striving to clear the cobwebs that impaired his faculties, he shook himself from head to toe. The chill morning air brought goose bumps to his skin. A bitter taste lingered in his mouth from the dirt, and he kept spitting to get rid of it.
White Apache kneed the stallion into a brisk walk. He deliberately bumped into Calhoun to spur the private to go faster and got a glare for his trouble. But Calhoun obeyed.
Once the sun rose, the temperature soared. Not a cloud marred the perfect blue of the sky. A few buzzards appeared, circling awhile before they soared off.
Calhoun’s feet hurt with every step he took. His army boots did not fit all that well. They were about half a size too small. As a result, the many hours of tramping across the rugged terrain had chafed his left ankle to the point where it bled and hurt like the dickens. The toes on his right foot also ached to the point where he placed most of his weight on the heel of his boot to keep from lancing his leg with agony.
Clay Taggart noticed the trooper was limping, but there was nothing he could do to ease his pain. They had to cover ten miles before early afternoon.
Clay was upset that he couldn’t simply shoot the soldier and be done with him. That was what Delgadito would have done. And Fiero. And Ponce. There was no mercy in their souls for those who had conquered their people and taken their land.
Cuchillo Negro was another story. Clay couldn’t say whether Black Knife would have slain Calhoun outright or not. Of all the warriors, Cuchillo Negro was the hardest to figure out. He hated whites-eyes, but there was an abiding sense of compassion in him rare for an Apache or a white man.
Idle thoughts continued to occupy Clay until almost noon. By then, Calhoun dragged one foot behind him and winced a lot. They were passing mesquite. At a shaded spot, Clay forgot himself and said, “Stop and rest, Calhoun. We have a long way to go yet.”
Clay realized his mistake when the astonished trooper whirled and gaped.
“What the hell? You speak English! You’ve understood every word I’ve said all along!”
Sliding off the horse, Clay said, “I should. I was born a white man, just like you.”
Calhoun scrutinized the other man closely, unable to come to grips with that new revelation. His captor looked every inch an Apache, just like those Calhoun had seen in the vicinity of Fort Bowie. Then he realized the man had blue eyes. A shiver rippled down his spine. There was only one person in the entire territory who dressed like an Indian and had eyes the color of a mountain lake. “You re him! You re Taggart, the one they call the White Apache!”
No confirmation was needed. Clay squatted and leaned the Winchester against his leg. “You’d better rest. We’ll stay put a spell.”
Calhoun didn’t know what to say. There in front of him was the most wanted man in Arizona, the bloodthirsty fiend his commanding officer had declared must be brought to bay at all costs.
“I’ve heard all the tales they tell about you,” Calhoun said. “Tell me. What kind of man are you? How could you have done all the vile things they say you have?”
“When a man has nothing left to lose, it doesn’t matter to him if he loses everything else.”
“You’re talking in riddles.”
“And you talk too much,” Clay said.
That remark shut Calhoun up. Clay plucked at a dry blade of grass and stuck it between his teeth. He was content to stay another five to ten minutes until he glanced to the east and saw a large cloud of dust in the distance. “Damn. On your feet, Private. We have to move out right away.”
“I thought you just told me we could rest a while? What's your big hurry all of a sudden?” Calhoun asked grumpily, not really expecting a reply. He got one though, and it was the last thing he expected to hear.
“You have a stage to catch.”
Seven
It was Curly Decker, the stagecoach driver, who first spotted someone lying in the middle of the rutted track of a road. Will, the guard, was wiping dust from his shotgun, while behind him, atop the creaking stage, Ira Kent sulked.
They had just crested a low rise. Curly was in the act of lowering his whip after goading the sweaty team up the east grade. The figure was several hundred yards away on its side.
Curly’s eyesight had always been extremely keen. It served him in good stead in his line of work. Frequently, he spotted trouble coming from a long way off.
In this instance, Curly noticed that the figure wore a blue uniform. So either it was an army trooper, which he very much doubted, or a wily ruse by Apaches. He wouldn’t put it past the red vermin to have one of their own dress in a stolen uniform and then lie out in the road to help ambush the stage.
Curly wasn’t falling for any Indian tricks. Lashing the whip, he cried out, “Redskins ahead!” The stage barreled forward, gaining speed every second. Curly couldn’t wait to feel the savage’s bones crunch under its big wheels.
Inside the bouncing coach, Tessa Heritage gripped the edge of her seat to keep from being pitched from her perch. “My word! What did Mr. Decker shout just now?”
“Something about Injuns,” Harvey Wilkinson said nervously.
Gallagher shifted toward his door and brushed the flaps of his black jacket back to expose his pearl-handled pistols. “If we’re attacked, ma’am, I’d advise you to get down low and stay down until we’re out of danger. Sometimes the arrows and the lead fly thick and fast.”
“Mercy me!” Tessa said.
The station manager at Mesilla had assured her there would be no danger, that the stage would get clear through to Tucson without mishap. “Don’t fret your pretty self about the hostiles, Miss,” he had said suavely. “The tame bucks are holed up on reservations, and the army has the wild ones corralled way up in the mountains. You’ll be as safe as if you were taking a stage from Kansas City to Denver.”
Only then did Tessa remember that a few months earlier the stage from Kansas City to Denver had been waylaid by Arapaho or Sioux and every last person massacred.
Tessa heard the crack of the driver’s whip. She fervently prayed that Curly Decker would get them out of whatever tight situation they were in. It would be a calamity if she died after traveling so far to see the father she had never met.
Hundreds of yards ahead, someone else heard the pop of the rawhide and whooped for joy. Private James Calhoun was bound hand and foot, but he had not been gagged. Swiveling so he could see the nearest bend, his every nerve aflame with excitement, he waited for the first sight of his salvation.
Calhoun was at a loss to explain why the White Apache had spared him. The renegade had not said another word after telling him that he had a stage to catch. At rifle point, Calhoun had been hustled to the road and made to lie down while his ankles were tied with strips from his uniform. He had come right out and asked Taggart why the man was letting him live, but Taggart had not answered.
Maybe, Calhoun reflected, the renegade wasn’t as vicious as everyone claimed. Maybe there was more to Taggart’s story than anyone knew. The man had to have a shred of decency left deep down.
At that moment, the stagecoach swept around the bend. Calhoun smiled broadly. Suddenly, it hit him that the stage was not slowing down. Indeed, the driver was cracking his long whip with a frenzy, driving the team to go faster.
“What the hell?” Calhoun said. The driver must not have seen him yet! Hooking his legs under him, he sat up and hollered at the top of his lungs, “Stop! Stop! For the love of God, I need your help!”
Curly Decker was about to swing his whip again when he saw the figure sit up. Since no Apache ever had sandy hair, he knew right away that it really was a white man
. “Tarnation!” he thundered and hauled on the reins while simultaneously applying the brake. It was sheer desperation on his part. The stage was going like a bat out of hell, and there wasn’t enough space between it and the man in the road to stop in time. But Curly had to try.
Inside the coach, Tessa cried out as it abruptly sloughed to one side and teetered as if it were about to topple over. She stifled a scream and glanced at her companions. Harvey Wilkinson had his eyes shut tightly and he was holding onto the frame of the window for dear life. Gallagher also had a firm grip, but he did not appear flustered. How he could sit there so calmly was beyond Tessa.
Up ahead, Private Calhoun blanched as the huge stagecoach hurtled toward him. It could not possibly come to a halt before it was too late. His body would be ground to pulp beneath the flailing hooves of the horses, then run over by the coach itself.
“No!” Calhoun flung himself to the right and rolled as he had never rolled before. He flipped over and over and over, heedless of the stones that gouged him and a tiny cactus that tore at his cheek. He had to get out of the way or he would die.
Neither the frantic trooper nor the people on the stage were aware that the entire tableau was being viewed by a pair of steely lake-blue eyes. Clay Taggart was as astounded as anyone by the turn of events.
It was common knowledge that the stage from Mesilla passed along that particular stretch of road every afternoon about the same time. Sometimes it was accompanied by cavalry; sometimes it wasn’t.
Clay had figured that leaving the greenhorn in the middle of the road was the surest way of returning Calhoun to where he belonged. He hadn’t counted on the stage running the private over. And he dared not show himself to help. The shotgun messenger or the man who rode up on the luggage rack were bound to open fire the moment he did.
Calhoun was close to the edge of the road. A glance showed the stage to be almost upon him. The horses seemed enormous at that angle, their nostrils flaring, their eyes wide, their hooves hammering the ground like giant hammers. In his panic, they resembled fire-breathing beasts out of some mythological nightmare rather than ordinary horses.
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